


Gifts

by lusilly



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Brothers, Case Fic, Childhood Memories, Flashbacks, Gen, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:45:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lusilly/pseuds/lusilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the remains of a boy abducted 20 years ago are unearthed, Hotch brings in a suspect from the original investigation. But the case quickly begins to unravel, and Hotch’s personal investment in this case becomes clear.</p><p>Two decades ago, Hotch failed his brother. Come hell or high water, he won’t let it happen again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of meant to structurally resemble a regular episode. Rated T+ for mentions of murder and child sexual abuse. No graphic descriptions though. This is mostly just an in-depth examination of my own headcanons for the Hotchner boys.
> 
> Set some relatively ambiguous time after the Brothers Hotchner episode; Emily is there instead of Blake just because I like her better.

_Condemn none: if you can stretch out a helping hand, do so. If you cannot, fold your hands, bless your brothers, and let them go their own way.  
_ Swami Vivekananda

            The case had started with two adolescent boys, two victims in as many years: Mark Cochrane and Peter Davenport. An expanded search unearthed two more bodies, Tommy Burnett, reported missing eight years ago, and Kyle Shepherd. Hotch knew that name. Kyle Shepherd had disappeared twenty years ago; he’d been a student at Jefferson Secondary School in Manassas, Virginia, which is where Hotch’s mother was from, and where she moved back to after his father passed. It was the high school that Hotch attended for three years, and from which he graduated. By the time Kyle Shepherd was abducted, Hotch was a newly-married, fresh-faced prosecutor in the District Attorney’s office. His younger brother Sean was a junior at the school. Co-captain of the lacrosse team, he’d been coaching Kyle, a sophomore who hoped to make varsity the following year.

            Kyle disappeared at the end of May, a few weeks before the end of school. He’d asked Sean if he could stay for varsity practice, just to see what it’d be like. When Kyle never got home that night, it had been Sean who called Hotch the next day after school while Kyle’s parents were at the police station, filing an official missing person’s report.

            Hotch remembered the slight fear in Sean’s voice, which his brother tried so hard to disguise. He also remembered the profound sense of helplessness, sitting at his desk in a room full of people making reports and making calls to other important people and reporting to their bosses. Tapping a pen on his desk, his eyes focused on the little tear-off calendar which displayed a grayscale cartoon of a man in a suit (much like himself) in front of a tear-off calendar (also like himself). _This is the only way_ , the jaded cartoon pouted, _that I can seize the day._

            It seemed odd to him, and a little too meta, to have a joke about a calendar on a calendar. That moment of dissonance was the reason why he could remember the exact moment Sean called, the sensory memory crisp and clear.

            One of the reasons, anyway.

            “Sean,” he’d said, voice lowered. Inconspicuously, he glanced around, imagining that despite all experience he’d had thus far to the contrary, that someone might actually give a damn what he was doing. “I know you’re trying to help, but there’s nothing I can do.”

            “Why not?” demanded Sean. He was calling from home, which Hotch could tell because his brother sounded very angry but was staying very quiet, so as not to disturb their mother. “You know where the bastard lives, go get him.”

            Repressing a sigh, Hotch replied, “I can’t. I’m not a cop.”

            “Fine, then give me his address.”

            “I can’t do that either.”

            “Why not?”

            Hotch was itching to respond to this: he had the perfect retort, a reply which would shut Sean up and get under his skin. But Hotch knew that Sean’s concern was real, and the urge to shut him down was only a brotherly one, something born out of looking after him when he was a toddler and being perpetually annoyed with his kid brother, an inability to treat him with the sincerity of adulthood. “Sean,” he continued, ignoring the question, “if you saw something, or know anything, you have to go to the police.”

            His brother didn’t immediately reply. Hotch could practically see Sean’s body stiffening, his lips tightening in the way they always did when they revisited this subject. “Aaron…”

            “You saw Bill hanging around the school last night?”

            “No,” answered Sean immediately, defensively; it was easier than asking for help. “But I’ve seen him around before.”

            “Has he ever said anything to you?” asked Hotch, tugging a notepad towards him, still tapping that pen.

            “No, but I’ve seen his car in the parking lot, like, four or five times.”

            “When?”

            “This year. Since January.”

            Hotch wrote this down, then paused, and asked, “Are you sure it was his car?”

            “It’s a really ugly car, Aaron.”

            “OK,” replied Hotch. Before he could continue, one of his coworker tipped a stack of files onto his desk.

            “Hey,” she said pointedly, “you need to look these over today, Larson wants a second pair of eyes and we’re heading to court on Monday, so-”

            Sliding the folder across his desk, he nodded at her. “Thanks, Cara, I’ll-” but she was already gone. There was a _beep_ on the phone and, now thoroughly distracted, Hotch said, “Sean, can you hold on for one second, I have to take this call,” and didn’t wait for his brother’s response, only jabbed a button and said, “Aaron Hotchner speaking.”

            Haley’s voice, low and sultry. “Hey, baby.”

            Her tone betrayed exactly what she’d called for, and his heart dropped that he didn’t have time to participate. “Honey, I’m sorry,” he said. “Now’s not a good time, can I make it up to you when I get home?”

            His own disappointment was reflected in her sigh. “You better.”

            “We should really schedule this.”  
            “That takes all the fun out of it.”

            “I love you, I’m sorry, I’m really busy and I’m on this other call right now-”

            “I get the message. Sorry, babe. Maybe later.”

            “Definitely later. See you at home.”

            “Bye.”

            Hotch went back to Sean’s call.

            “Bill has a house in Greensboro,” he said simply, getting straight to business. “If he had something to do with this, and if he took Kyle back there – and those are two really big ifs, Sean – then…maybe I could help you out.”

            Almost cautiously, Sean asked, “How?”

            “I know a guy,” replied Hotch. As tentative as he was to pull this card, Sean was right, Bill was a creep, and the kid might be on to something. “You know. In the FBI.”

            “Why would the FBI get involved?”

            Irritation flickered across Hotch’s face, quick to jump where Sean was involved. “Come on, aren’t you taking Civics? That’s a federal offense.”

            There was a silence on the other line, even as the office around him bustled. Cara passed his desk again and motioned aggressively towards the stack of files, untouched; in response, Hotch held up his hand and mouthed, _One second_ -

            Then, just as Hotch was about to tell Sean he had to go, the younger brother spoke again. “I can’t go to the cops,” he said. His voice sounded low, and hollow.

            This again. Hotch could’ve rolled his eyes. “Yes, you can,” he replied.

            “They’re going to ask me why.”

            “And you’re going to say that you saw him hanging around school. You don’t have to tell them anything else. I promise.”

            “I mean, it’s not like they don’t already _know_ -”

            “OK,” said Hotch, annoyed. “Sean, your friend has already been gone for almost twenty-four hours, and I don’t have to tell you what that means. If you think you can help the police investigation at all, please, please do so. In the meantime I’ll call my friend at the FBI, and then I’ll drive down there and meet you.”

            Alarmed, Sean asked, “What? Do I need a lawyer?”

            “No, but you could probably use a trusted adult right now.” Hotch felt himself sit up a little straighter, a satisfaction eclipsing his slight disdain for his little brother: he always did like the feeling of taking care of other people. “I’ll be there tonight.”

            When Sean spoke again, he seemed almost breathless. “Yeah,” he said. “OK. Thanks Aaron.”

            “Yeah. Tell Mom I say hi.”

            “Same to Haley.”

            Before he hung up, Hotch paused. “Talk to the cops, Sean,” he said, and then he replaced the phone on the receiver, and picked up the files before him, looking down at the first page.

            Kyle Shepherd was declared legally dead by his parents, searching for closure, ten years later. His remains were found in the North Carolina wilderness a few years after that, along with the bodies of three other adolescent boys. The BAU had been called in for the first two bodies, and had found themselves at a loss for suspects. Then Garcia ID’d Kyle Shepherd, and Hotch had made one call to the Greensboro PD, and now he was standing before the window to an interrogation room, his brother’s voice in his ear, that tear-off calendar’s meta-joke just behind his eyes.

            Other than getting Hotch his first job at the Seattle Field Office back in the day, Hotch’s FBI contact hadn’t done much. For all Hotch knew, the guy was still at the Bureau, although Hotch’s career trajectory had left him in the dust a few years ago.

            Someone appeared beside him, and Rossi peered through the glass. “That’s the guy?”

            Slowly, Hotch nodded.

            From behind them, JJ flipped through a case file. “You worked the original Kyle Shepherd case?” she asked, although she only seemed vaguely interested.

            “No,” answered Hotch. “I was in the DA’s office at the time.”

            Lifting up a paper, scanning through the information, JJ replied, “This guy was never prosecuted…”

            “No,” said Hotch stoically, “he wasn’t.” He never tore his eyes away from the man’s face.

            Prentiss hesitated, exchanging a glance with JJ, then looking at her boss. “Do we have any physical evidence?”

            “Not yet,” replied Rossi, turning to her. “But that was the problem in the first case: no body. No way to tie him to the abduction.”

            Another moment’s pause, and then Prentiss continued, “He may have been a suspect back when Kyle Shepherd was abducted, but…the guy isn’t a perfect match for the profile.” She paused, glancing at Hotch as if looking for a reaction. When none came, she continued. “We profiled that the unsub was in his forties, this guy’s almost sixty. I doubt he could’ve dragged the bodies off the main road to the disposal site by the river.”

            “Eh, look at the man,” countered Rossi, although he kept his eyes firmly locked on the man behind the one-way mirror. “He’s in shape.” His lack of eye contact was a tell, and Prentiss knew he didn’t entirely disagree with her. From the way he stood – beside Hotch, close to his shoulder, backing him up – she guessed there was something between them that they hadn’t yet said.

            Closing the folder, JJ looked up at them again. “You know, Emily’s right,” she began. “He lives in North Carolina, which means he’d be driving over a hundred miles to abduct the boys and to dispose of the bodies. And we still haven’t found a vehicle that would allow him to transport these kids unnoticed, or a secondary location where he could’ve held them.”

            Hotch murmured, “You can fit a teenage boy in a trunk.”

            To gently remind her boss of the myriad of problems they were facing, Prentiss said, “We’re combing the house and the car right now, but…” she trailed off, casting a helpless look towards the two men. “So far, nothing.”

            Behind them, a door opened: it was Morgan. “Hey,” he said, nodding back behind him. “Garcia’s got something.”

            Prentiss and JJ followed him out immediately; Rossi began to move, but then Hotch reached out and stopped him. “Dave,” he said, finally turning to look the other man in the eyes. Hotch’s brow was furrowed in his characteristic frown, but his eyes were not their usual dark pools; he seemed…if not troubled, then at the very least concerned. In a personal, visceral way. “I want you to talk to him.”

            “OK,” answered Rossi, meeting the other man’s eyes. “You wanna tell me why you won’t?”

            Hotch didn’t say anything, considering this question. He was a man of few words on the best of days, and there was something about this case that made him go quiet and tight. Something, Rossi knew, that had to have gone back before he was working with the BAU, considering the timeline, considering that he, Rossi, had no idea why Hotch had so much pent-up anger at the man sitting in the room before him.

            “I mean now,” said Hotch. “Whatever information Garcia has, I want you to go in there without hearing it.”

            This was odd, and Rossi didn’t think that Hotch expected him to take the order without question. It was not exactly an answer to his question, but whatever explanation Hotch was prepared to give would allow just a few more seconds worth of emotion which Rossi could profile. “Why?” asked Rossi bluntly. “If he is the unsub, and I go in without all the information, then he,” Rossi lifted a hand and pointed through the window, “has the upper hand.”

            Hotch gave the slightest nod, indication that he understood this, and then replied, “I know this guy, Dave, and fifteen years ago I thought he was just as guilty as I do right now. I’m open to the possibility of being wrong, but I don’t think I am.” He paused, and then explained: “I need you to go in there and tell me I’m not just seeing things.”

            Peering into Hotch’s eyes for any other meagre evidence he could use against the other man, Rossi finally nodded in surrender. “OK,” he said. “I’ll be quick.”

            Heading towards the door, Hotch said, “Take your time,” but Rossi reached out and stopped him.

            “Hold on,” he said, knowing now that there was something very wrong. “I know you want this done, Aaron, but sending me in without observation isn’t regulation.”

            “I’ll bring the Sheriff in,” murmured Hotch, but Rossi, still holding on to the other man’s expensive suit, shook his head.

            “Look,” he began. Hotch’s gaze flickered from the door to the other man’s face; satisfied that he had Hotch’s full attention, Rossi continued. “I don’t know what kinda history you have with this guy that you don’t want us knowing about, but I can recognize a conflict of interest when I see one.”

            Hotch stared at him, jaw working slightly. Rossi had worked with him long enough to realize this was an indication of speechlessness, of the man’s mind running overtime to come up with an explanation, and he knew that there was potential to be very disappointed with the untruths about to come out of Hotch’s mouth.

            He was, however, saved from that misfortune by the door opening one more time. “Hey,” said Morgan, glancing between the two of them. “You coming?”

            When neither of them immediately replied, Morgan realized he’d interrupted something. Just as he was considering backing out, Hotch said: “Morgan, get Sheriff Hale for us. Dave will join us in a few minutes.”

             As Morgan left to dutifully fetch the Sheriff, Dave said, “You wanna tell me whatever’s going on, or do you wanna let Garcia dig it up and share it with the class?”

            Holding up his hands, Hotch said, “Just – do what I asked, please,” and then he left.

            Rossi had an idea, but he wasn’t yet sure. Turning back to the window, he looked out at the man before him. Probably around his age, much grayer, but in a very refined, dignified way. He looked like money, and sat sipping coffee at the steel table, occasionally checking his watch. He didn’t look like a child abductor, rapist, and murderer, but then again, Rossi knew better than most that looks could be very deceiving.

\----

            “Alright, baby girl, we’re all here.”

            “Good morrow, my babies,” Garcia began, her voice slightly distorted by the phone’s connection. “I have bad news, and even badder news.”

            “Let’s start with the bad,” said Prentiss, glancing around.

            “When I say _bad news_ , I mean for us – if I were William Montgomery this would probably be actually good news, which _actually_ means that it could in fact he good news for us, if the guy’s innocent, but assuming he’s just really, really good at what he does, _then_ it would be bad news for-”

            “Garcia,” said Hotch, the tireless interruption of a train of thought going nowhere.

            “Right,” she continued. “Sorry, sir. My point being that Mr. Montgomery only has the one vehicle registered in his name, and a bright red sedan isn’t exactly the kind of car I’d use if I were going to abduct a teenage boy, drive him hundreds of miles, and then journey into the deep wilderness to dump him. Then again, I wouldn’t have gotten into that position in the first place, so I’m not the best judge of character. That’s your guyses’ job.”

            “GPD didn’t find any other vehicles on the property,” said Morgan, looking up at Hotch.

            “Keep looking,” answered Hotch, speaking up to address Garcia. “Look for cars registered to family, and company cars, maybe.”

            “He’s retired,” JJ offered; Hotch didn’t even look up when she spoke.

            “Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Garcia continued. “I’ll keep a look out. Other than that, the guy is a serious gym nut, a regular at his senior’s fitness club, recently ran a fifty-five-plus marathon, wow, that is _impressive_ for a man his age – _but_ , he is also a diabetic, and an ex-smoker.”

            “All right,” said Morgan doubtfully. “And that helps us how?”

            This time Reid spoke up, answering before Hotch could open his mouth. “Actually, for a man his age to be able to handle the bodies of boys in their mid-teens, he’d have to be in pretty fit shape, not to mention the hiking abilities it would take to get down to the bank of the river, where the bodies were found. That could have been a confounding factor in the profile – we said the unsub would have to be in his forties, but depending on how well Montgomery took care of himself, he could’ve actually been capable of this.”

            Unconvinced, Prentiss began, “Yeah, but participating in a senior’s marathon isn’t exactly damning.”

            “Garcia,” said Hotch, “what about a secondary location to hold the boys?”

            “Nada, my liege,” answered the tech analyst. “Montgomery liquidated all his properties over twenty years ago, looks like he was in some money troubles. He inherited the Greensboro home a few years after that, when his mother passed.”

            “That house is clean,” said Prentiss. “We checked it top-to-bottom.”

            Hotch said nothing, considering this.

            “But,” Garcia began, “on to the badder news – which, in retrospect, may have been the good news, but I’m not totally sure because if you ask me you kind of lose perspective on this stuff, the longer you’re in this biz-”

            “Baby girl.”

            “I’m getting there! Turns out that twenty years ago there was a series of child molestation cases at a summer camp near Shenandoah National Park, now it was one _super_ sketchy summer camp because the main suspect jumped ship, and they found out later he was using an assumed name. I’m not _saying_ anything for sure, but the guy fits Montgomery’s description, and get this: the camp was for thirteen to fifteen year old boys.”

            “That fits,” said JJ, looking around at the others. “A few weeks at a summer camp wasn’t enough for him, so that’s why he started abducting them.”

            “And he realized the kids would talk,” Morgan said, arms crossed and voice hard. “That’s why he started killing them.”

            “One more thing!” Garcia continued. “Our Fearless Leader was correct, the guy does have precisely one incident of note in his previously sealed criminal record: about a year pre-Kyle Shepherd’s disappearance, he was brought in on some child abuse charges. The kid was a minor and the charges were dropped, so I can’t give you a name, but I can tell you it happened in Manassas, Virginia.”

            Prentiss looked up, eyebrows raised. “Manassas,” she said. “That’s where Kyle Shepherd’s high school was.”

            “Child abuse?” asked Reid, leaning in over the table. “Do you have any specifics on that? Usually a police report should at least contain the nature of the crime in question.”

            “Mm, I’m sorry my lovely, but it’s a super minor report. There aren’t even any witness statements, it looks like a botched job to me.”

             “Thanks, Garcia,” said Hotch. “Keep looking for a vehicle and secondary location.”

            “Will do, good sir!” Just as Hotch reached out to hand up, her voice broke through once more, “Woah, hold on!”

            “You got a hit?” asked Prentiss, almost hopefully.

            “Uh-uh. The opposite of a hit, actually – police in Reston, hometown of our last boy, little Mark Cochrane? They just picked up a suspect name of James Turner.”

            Without hesitating, Hotch only asked, “Why?”

            “Same as you, going through old suspect lists – only this guy has a backpack which the parents ID’d as their son’s.”

            The whole team exchanged looks, and then Hotch said, “Get me everything you can on James Turner.”

            “As we speak!”

            Once Garcia hung up, it was Morgan who spoke first. “That doesn’t make  sense,” he said. “Why would the unsub keep evidence of such a violent crime?”

            “Could be an unconventional trophy,” Prentiss offered. “Something practical, possibly to help in his next abduction.”

            “No,” answered Hotch, brow furrowed. “Morgan’s right, it doesn’t add up.” After another moment of consideration, he said, “JJ, you and Morgan meet with Turner. If you can’t rule him out tonight, he comes to us.”

            Almost warily, Morgan began, “Hotch, if we don’t have any physical evidence on Montgomery-”

            “It doesn’t matter,” replied Hotch, shaking his head. His gaze, dark and grinding, was transfixed on the table before them, refusing to meet any of theirs. “We won’t need it.”

\----

            Rossi entered the room slowly, closing the door behind him, shuffling to the table, and taking a seat.

            “So,” he began, peering down at the file before him. “William Montgomery.”

            The man across from him smiled, his eyes magnified by wide glasses. “Please,” he said. “Call me Bill.” When Rossi said no more, he asked, “Can I ask who you are?”

            Eyeing the man carefully, Rossi replied: “I’m Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi. I’m from the FBI.”

            With a grin, Montgomery replied “Supervisory Special – damn that’s a mouthful. Mind if I just call you Dave?”

            “That depends,” answered Rossi, delicately plucking a set of photographs from the folder before him. He slid them across the cold steel table, displaying corpses in various states of decay. “Did you rape and kill these boys, Mr. Montgomery?”

            Convincingly, Montgomery’s expression twisted slightly in disgust – but no betrayal of satisfaction or smugness. After an appropriate few seconds, he looked away, deliberately keeping his gaze away from the photos. “No,” he said. “God no. This is about all those boys they found? I saw on TV. It’s horrific, how could you _possibly_ think I was…”

            He trailed off, and then something seemed to click in his eyes. Settling into his seat, he took off his glasses, cleaned the lenses on his shirt, and then replaced them on his face.

            “You said you’re with the FBI?” he asked, peering at Rossi.

            Slowly, Rossi nodded. “I am.”

            Montgomery let out a disappointed little sigh.

            Then he asked, “You don’t happen to know an Aaron Hotchner now, do you?” He ducked past Rossi, staring at the one-way mirror behind the agent. Raising his voice, Montgomery called, “Is that what this is about, Aaron? A twenty-year-old grudge is worth the complete destruction of my reputation?”

            With narrowed eyes, Rossi asked loudly, “What are you talking about?”

            Uncomfortable in his metal seat, Montgomery shook his head, folded his hands before him, and then said: “Let me explain.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Who's on the phone, Hotch?"

_26 Years Ago_

            “A double date?” asked Haley doubtfully. “With your _mom_?”

            Aaron leaned over from the driver’s seat and kissed his girlfriend as she closed the car door behind her. “You look beautiful,” he said.

            As he started the car, heading through the fading dusk, she replied, “Yeah, and I’m sure your mother will tell you that you look very handsome. And then she’ll ask me if I’ve gained weight.”

            With a little smile, Aaron replied, “Give her a chance, Haley-”

            “I _did_ give her a chance,” she replied, brushing her long blonde hair back, collecting it on her right shoulder. “She doesn’t like me, and there’s nothing I can do to change that.”

            Without taking his eyes off the road, Aaron reached across and took his girlfriend’s hand. She let go of her hair, and held his hand with both of hers. Then, in the conciliatory tone Haley had hoped he’d avoid, he began, “It’s not personal, you know. She just doesn’t like that you’re Jewish.”

            Immediately, she let out a frustrated breath. “ _That’s_ not personal?”

            “Not really,” he replied, flashing a grin at her. “It’s more of an institutional thing.”

            Haley let out a very dry laugh, and squeezed his hand. He glanced at her, a grin on his face. “OK, fine,” she said. “Who’s your mom’s new beau? Have you met him before?”

            Aaron shook his head. “I haven’t been home much since she met him. His name’s Bill Montgomery, and my mother really seems to like him. Sean, on the other hand…”

            Haley made a loud buzzing noise, then giggled. “There’s your problem, though. Sean doesn’t like anyone.”

            With a little laugh, Aaron replied, “That’s what I thought, but this seems to go beyond regular pre-pubescent stranger-danger dislike.”

            “Oh?”

            “Sean,” he said, as if in explanation, “says that Bill Montgomery is a total gold-digger.”

            Haley giggled, clasping her hand with his, interlocking their fingers. “Well then,” she replied properly, “he’s a damn smart one, because your family is ripe for the pickings, Mister Hotchner.”

            “Oh, Miss Brooks,” he replied, raising an eyebrow and glancing over at her. “Is there something you’d like to come clean about?”

            She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “How long has your mom been seeing this guy?”

            With a shrug, he answered, “A few months.”

            “So why dinner now?”

            Aaron didn’t answer this at first. Then he let out a little breath and he said, “Well, this is where your incredible acting skills come in.”

            Thrilled at the prospect, Haley nodded earnestly. “I can do that,” she said. “But do I have to remind you about the miserable state of your own acting, sweetheart?”

            “I’m no good at theater, sure,” Aaron admitted. “But I’ve had a lot of practice in lying to my mother, Haley.”

            She giggled. “OK, what are we lying about?”

            Eyes still on the road, Aaron took his hand away from his girlfriend's, executing a sharp turn onto a highway. “We’re gonna have to pretend to act surprised when they tell us, but Sean told me already…Bill’s moving in with them.” At this, Haley let out a shrill fake-gasp, and Aaron asked, “Oh, sure, what was that for?”

            “Another _man?_ ” she asked, one hand dramatically splayed across her chest. “In _your_ home? Oh dear, Aaron, when you meet him you should – you should pee on him, or something, establish your male dominance, make sure he knows that _you’re_ the man of the house-”

            “Oh, very funny.”

            “-the _alpha male_ -”

            “Now you’re just being mean,” he said, but there was a smile on his face.

            She laughed, then continued, “I just think it’s funny, how serious you are about this.”

            “Well,” he countered, peering out through the windshield, “this _is_ my family we’re talking about.”

            “Yeah, your family who you deliberately haven’t visited in six months even though you go to school a few miles away. As if it matters what goes on at home, you’re never there.”

            This hurt Aaron, and once Haley glanced over, she could tell it did. Abandoning caution, she leaned over and planted her lips on his cheek again, slipping her arms around his strong torso.

            “OK, you’re right,” she said, leaning on his shoulder. “That was mean. I know they’re your family, but you’re the one who always talks about how badly you wanted to get out of that house.”

            “You make a good point,” he replied, in his cute little ticked-off murmur, but then he added, “Maybe I just don’t like the idea of someone stepping into my dad’s shoes.”

            “Someone other than you, you mean.”

            “Point. Again.”

            “I don’t think it’s a bad thing,” said Haley, letting go of her boyfriend, sitting back in her seat. “Maybe your mom will be more tolerable now that she’s getting laid.”

            “ _Haley_.”

            “ _Aaron_. Plus Sean could probably use a strong male role model in his life, outside of you, of course.” She grinned at him and, almost reluctantly, he returned the smile. “Maybe a stepdad would help him focus and not be such a brat all the time.”

            At this, Aaron conceded a small chuckle. “It’d take more than that to get that kid straightened out.”

            Haley sat up, as if an idea had just struck her. “That reminds me!” she said gleefully, grinning at her boyfriend. “Whatever happened to our plan to hook him up with Jessica?”

            They drove on into the coming night, to dinner with Ms. Hotchner and her new man.

\----

_Present Day_

            “You know it actually makes a lot of sense that the unsub would stay in the same state,” Reid began, hovering before a map taped onto the whiteboard before him. “There’s no reason to run the risk of bringing his victims across state lines, especially if he returned to Virginia to dump the bodies.”

            “So,” Prentiss said, watching Reid plot out points on the map, “we have yet another place where Montgomery doesn’t fit the profile.”

            Thoughtfully, Reid stepped back and considered the topography before him. Then, pointing at another spot, he added, “Not to mention James Turner’s cabin. It’s secluded and close enough to the dump sites to function as a secondary location.”

            Despite this, Prentiss sensed that Reid wasn’t finished. She prompted him, “But…?”

            Reid paused, then looked around at her. “James is a high school drop-out,” he explained. “The records Garcia dug up indicate some kind of undiagnosed mental disability, and everything we’ve found so far indicate that the unsub is controlled, organized, and intelligent enough to pull this off for the past twenty years. I’m not convinced.”

            As if it knew Reid had just voiced his doubts, Prentiss’s phone began to ring: she picked it up and asked, “What do you have?”

            “Too much,” answered JJ, sounding concerned. “The cabin, the van, and one piece of physical evidence for each murder. The locals want to call it case closed.”

            “But that doesn’t make sense,” countered Prentiss, leaning in and shooting a worried glance up at Reid. “Turner has a clean record. This level of violence doesn’t come out of nowhere.”

            “Well,” replied JJ fairly, “there was a whole ten years in between the first and second abduction. Kyle Shepherd could’ve been on impulse, and then it just continued to an escalation in time, not in violence.”

            Reid asked, “Does James have an alibi for the times of the abductions?”

            “Nothing solid,” said JJ.

            “Neither does Montgomery,” countered Prentiss pointedly.

            After an uncertain pause, on the other line JJ continued, “Look, I know he doesn’t exactly match the profile, but sometimes we _are_ wrong. We can’t argue with evidence.”

            “Unless he was set up,” murmured Reid, looking back at the geographical profile.

            Prentiss added, “He could be the fall guy.”

            “You know,” began JJ tentatively, “Hotch isn’t _always_ right.”

            Reid gave a small shrug and, leaning over the phone, started to say, “On the contrary, in my experience-”

            “Look, JJ,” said Prentiss. “If there’s a chance we’re missing something, it’s our job to figure out what it is. Something’s off with this Montgomery guy, I know it.”

            JJ seemed to consider this, a long pause on the other side of the phone. Then she finally relented. “Fine,” she said. “But you’ve got less than forty-eight hours, and then we have to let him go.”

            “Get James Turner over here,” said Prentiss, sweeping her hair back, glancing up at Reid. “He’s gotta be connected to Montgomery.”

            Outside the conference room, David Rossi stood before a defiant Aaron Hotchner, his arms folded stubbornly across his chest. “So you knew about his record,” said Rossi, voice low.

            Hotch didn’t nod, but said: “I filed the charges.”

            “The charges were dropped, Aaron.”

            “Only,” Hotch replied, “because the witness withdrew his testimony.” His voice was not hard but also – delicate, almost, in that it seemed as if it had reached the height of a very tall cliff, one from which he could not yet see a safe way down. This was anger, and not the hot, wet red fury of blood pumping through veins, slicking knuckles, but instead something much colder. Something that Rossi knew, with Hotch, often ended with a single shot and a weapon’s recoil in his able hands. “Given the nature of his crimes, you and I both know that doesn’t mean he’s innocent.”

            Nodding sympathetically, Rossi blazed on. “I understand that, but we also both know that you’re gonna have a bias towards this guy, no matter how he does or doesn’t fit the profile.”

            “I know,” said Hotch, his expression hard as granite. “That’s why I asked you to talk to him first.”

            Ducking his head slightly and lowering his voice even more, Rossi continued, “Yeah, but you didn’t _tell_ me that. I had to find out from a child molester.”

            Hotch didn’t say anything for a long moment, lips pressed together in a tight line.

            After waiting long enough to be sure that Hotch had nothing more to say, Rossi said, “They have another suspect. If Montgomery walks, then he _walks_. You’ve gotta be prepared for that.”

            Before the words had even completely passed Rossi’s lips, Hotch said, “I know he took Kyle Shepherd.”

            “OK, fine,” said Rossi, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Then prove it.”

            “I’ll prove it,” Hotch replied, and there was a spark like flint against stone, lighting up in the back of his eyes. “Give me thirty seconds, no cameras, I’ll prove it.”

            Rossi didn’t even have to respond to this; after a moment, Hotch glanced away, breaking eye contact, as close to an apology as Rossi was going to get in the moment.

            Softening his tone, Rossi eyed his friend and asked, “Where is Sean? If Montgomery’s our guy and Sean testifies against him now, maybe he can get a reduced sentence.”

            With a small shake of his head, Hotch replied, “Sean got a suspended sentence, his probation was up last month.”

            Eyebrows raised, Rossi stared at the other man. “Six month suspended sentence?” he asked, very carefully, very pointedly. “For obstruction of justice in a federal case?”

            Hotch did not look comfortable. “I made a few calls.”

            With a sigh, Rossi clapped a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Of course you did, Aaron. Of course you did.”

            When they brought James Turner in, Hotch watched. Rossi stood with him, gaze hovering in between the suspect and the Unit Chief. After Turner was led into an interrogation room, Hotch murmured to the other man, “I don’t recognize him.”

            They hadn’t noticed how close behind them JJ was until she spoke. “Well, why would you?” she asked, holding a file in her hands. “Turner wasn’t a suspect in the Kyle Shepherd abduction. He would’ve been just a few years older than Kyle.”

            Hotch considered this, then murmured, “That doesn’t make sense. Preferential offenders don’t tend to start with someone in their own age group.”

            “Unless they were romantically involved,” added Rossi.

            “There’s no connection between the two pre-abduction,” said JJ immediately. “No evidence that he knew Kyle at all, except for the wristwatch which belonged to him.”

            “Souvenirs,” said Rossi grimly.

            JJ gave an unsure, half-shrug. “There was an object from each of the boys. A wristwatch, glasses, pair of shoes, and a backpack.” When neither man continued, she added, “It’s weird, though – none of the objects were hidden. They were displayed prominently in the house, right on the mantel.”

            “Like trophies,” remarked Rossi, glancing at her. “Literally.”

            Still, JJ did not seem certain. She shrugged again. Sensing that there was something amiss, Hotch glanced down at her and asked, “What are you thinking?”

            “Too easy,” said JJ. She held tightly onto the folder in her arms, eyes staring beyond them, thinking hard. “Cut-and-dried. Any other day, I guess this would be a victory, but…” she paused, struggling helplessly to find the right words. When she could not, she looked back at Hotch, hesitation in her eyes. “Something doesn’t feel right.”

            Rossi did not object into sending Hotch in first. Although neither of them said it, he and Rossi were both hoping that meeting this man would jog Hotch’s memory, something that Bill Montgomery may have said, someone he may have known, all those years ago.

            The whole team was watching. Hotch entered the room, all business.

            “I’m Special Agent Aaron Hotchner,” he said. “I’m from the F-”

            James Turner repeated, “Hotchner?”

            Hotch nodded, and pulled a photograph out of the file in his hands. “Do you know this-?”

            Without looking away from Hotch’s face, Turner said, “I want a lawyer.”

            There was nothing, a distinct lack of movement in the room. The photo hovered in midair; Hotch had not yet even set it down on the table before them. Hotch retracted his hand, replacing the photograph in the file, and said, “All right.”

            When Hotch returned to his team, Morgan said, “Well, that’s it. There’s gotta be a connection between him and Montgomery. Turner knows he’s in hot water so he’s lawyering up.”

            “But he didn’t invoke when he saw the picture,” Prentiss pointed out. “Hotch, it was like he recognized you.”

            “Not me,” Hotch muttered, in reply. “My name.”

            Since he’d already established a rapport with Montgomery, Rossi went back into the room with the man. “Hi, Bill,” he said.

            “Hello again, Dave,” Montgomery replied, a pleasant smile on his face. “Got any good news for me?”

            “I sincerely doubt it,” Rossi answered, sitting down in front of the man. He steeled the silence, peering into the suspect’s eyes. And then he said, “We brought James Turner in for questioning, Bill.”

            Montgomery blinked. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

            “This is gonna come down a lot easier on you,” said Rossi, “if you just cut the crap now, Bill.”

            Hands clasped before him, Montgomery watched Rossi. And then he leaned in ever so slightly, an old man with just a hint of thunder left in his eyes, and he said: “I’d like to speak to Aaron, please.”

            Shaking his head, Rossi said, “That’s not gonna happen.”

            Again, Montgomery looked past Rossi’s head, at the one-way mirror. Raising his voice, he called, “I’d like him to apologize, now.”

            “Mr. Montgomery,” said Rossi. Montgomery looked at him, a smug but plain look on his face. “Shut the hell up.”

\----

            The whole team was seated when Hotch slipped into the room. As he sat as well, smoothing his tie, he began quietly, “I’m sorry to have withheld this information from you all this long. It was a matter of confidentiality, but…” he hesitated, grimacing as he spoke, “…considering that it’s now relevant to the case, it would be negligent not to disclose all the details.”

            JJ spoke, her eyes fixed on their boss from across the table. “This is about Montgomery and Turner knowing your name.” It was not a question.

            All the same, Hotch bowed his head slightly in assent. “The allegations twenty-two years ago, in Manassas,” he began. “The unnamed minor involved was my younger brother. He was a teenager then. I had Bill arrested, but when the charges were dropped there was nothing I could do.”

            The rest of the team seemed only slightly surprised; Rossi had guessed that, by this point, they’d assumed the worst. A look of vague relief on JJ’s face betrayed this, as well as a stony, unreadable expression on Morgan’s.

            “Manassas, Virginia?” echoed Reid, frowning slightly. “Did you know Kyle Shepherd?”

            “No,” answered Hotch. “My brother did. In fact he was the one who called me about Kyle’s disappearance. He suspected it was Bill.”

            Leaning in, Morgan asked, “So how is James Turner involved here? Did your brother know him, too?”

            With a shake of his head, Hotch replied, “No, he didn’t. I don’t know anything about that connection yet, but I know there’s something there.”

            “Has to be,” said Prentiss; at the same time, Morgan’s cell began to ring. Glancing at the name, he answered and held it out as Prentiss continued, “There’s no way Turner was smart enough to pull all this off on his own.”

            “The beautiful Princess Prentiss would be absolutely correct!” came Garcia’s voice, from the phone. “Like, clinically so. James Turner was in a car accident when he was ten years old, his dad died and the crash left little James with mild brain damage. He never finished high school and has held the same job at the post office for over a decade.”

            “Low-level government employee,” said Morgan, looking up at Hotch. “That doesn’t exactly sound like the kind of income that allows for a cabin in the woods.”

            “Ah, my sweets! This is where it starts to get interesting.” Over the line came the tell-tale taps of Garcia on her keyboards, and she continued, “The only thing James pays with his income are his bills. Like, no online shopping or anything. Anything that can be paid in cash is, and here’s the kicker: there are no records of him withdrawing any amount of cash on a daily, weekly, monthly, or even yearly basis.”

            JJ asked, “So what does that mean?”

            Leaning back in his seat, Rossi spoke. “It means there’s someone out there who has a vested interest in Turner keeping that cabin,” he said, “but sure as hell doesn’t want his name on it.”

            “You think he’s being framed?” asked Morgan.

            “He’s being set up,” answered Hotch lowly. “There’s a difference.”

            Doubtfully, Prentiss asked, “Is there?”

            “ _Framed_ ,” replied Rossi, “implies that he’s innocent.”

            “Garcia,” said Hotch. “Can you find any kind of connection between Turner and Montgomery?”

            “I’m afraid not, my liege,” she said. “Not at the moment, but I’ll keep digging.”

            “Thank you,” he said, and Garcia ended the call. One hand on the file, he said, “Dave, I want you back in with Montgomery, we’re not done with him. Morgan, take Reid and get another look at the victims’ belongings from Turner’s house. JJ and Prentiss, you two work with Garcia, keep looking for that connection.”

            The team split. Rossi followed Hotch out, but before they could head to the room where Montgomery was being held, Rossi stopped him. “Aaron,” he said, taking hold of his arm. Although Hotch shook his hand off, he did not seem resistant to whatever was coming: he met Rossi’s gaze almost determinedly. Seriously, Rossi continued, “I shouldn’t have to point out to you that James Turner is about your age. It’s a good guess that he was just a teenager when Montgomery first met him, which means that the both of you probably knew Montgomery at the same time.”

            “I hardly knew Bill in the first place, Dave,” Hotch replied, and his tone was almost beseeching, deeply apologetic. “I moved out of that house as soon as I-”

            Defiantly, Rossi placed his hand on Hotch’s shoulder once more. “Maybe he mentioned James, or you overheard something once, and you just haven’t been able to put it together.” Hotch was beginning to look wary, so Rossi just came out and said it: “I want you to do a cognitive interview.”

            “I was barely there-”

            “Look, Aaron,” continued Rossi, bulldozing ahead, anticipating protest. “Unless you can get your brother up here in the next thirty-six hours, you’re our only witness.” Hotch still looked unsure, so he kept pushing. “We don’t have much else to go on, and we’re running out of time. You don’t have to do it with me, you can pick anyone on the team.”

            It was clear that Hotch saw the reason in this. His hesitance was well-hidden, but Rossi knew him well enough to detect the anxiety there, in the tightness of his eyes, the stiffness of his limbs. Finally, only briefly meeting Rossi’s gaze, Hotch murmured, “JJ.”

            “Fine,” said Rossi. “JJ. I’ll work with Emily, we can interview him again afterwards.”

            He headed back to the room they’d just left; like a game of musical chairs, JJ got up and Rossi took her seat, and then she was joining Hotch, concern marked with resolve on her face. “Come on,” she said, nodding to an empty office.

            “JJ,” he said, taking a seat before the desk. JJ kept the lights off, and closed the door behind them. Watching as she went to lean against the wooden desk, he said, “This was twenty years ago.”

            She shrugged. “We’ve worked with less.” He didn’t seem convinced.

            Hotch wasn’t entirely sure why he would rather do this with JJ than Rossi. Surely the other man understood more about the situation, knew far more about Hotch’s background than JJ did – after all, Rossi had vetted Hotch’s application when he first came to the BAU. But if he had to pick a member of the team with whom to share his weakness, for some reason JJ felt like the safer choice. Better than Morgan, whom Hotch already feared felt too close to this case – better than Reid for sure, because of how much he depended on Hotch’s wieldy, present strength – and better than Emily, for as sweet as she was, she had a tough shell which matched his hardness and strength newton for newton, and Hotch, petty as it sounded, had no desire to share with her any amount emotional leverage.

            JJ, on the other hand, he understood JJ. She understood him. Deep down, communicated in the little glances between them, the pangs of empathy in the field, he suspected it was because they were both parents; ask anyone else on the team if they’d take a bullet for an innocent civilian, and the answer was an immediate yes. Both Hotch and JJ, on the other hand, bore the guilt-ridden responsibility of knowing that there was only one person on earth for whom they would pay the ultimate price.

            So she understood that bravery was not always brave, and, to the less discerning eye, could easily be very much mistaken for weakness. He thought, also, that the both of them had a familiarity with the intimate knowledge of failure, the dread so close to crystallization into self-hatred: the _I-couldn’t-save-you_ , which probably hurt worst of all.

            Hotch had failed to save two of the people in the world that he was meant to protect most. But there was no way he would get through this interview at all if he started thinking about Haley, so he banished her from his mind, compartmentalizing as he had become so accustomed to doing.

            “OK,” said JJ. “Think back to the last time you saw William Montgomery.”

            Hotch paused, and then settled into the seat, hands in his lap. “Bill,” he said, closing his eyes.

            “Right. The last time you saw Bill.”

            “Not the last time,” he said.

            “OK. When?”

            Hotch was silent for a moment, eyes closed in the office. Horizontal beams of gentle light hit across his face, and JJ got up, closed the blinds, then sat back down.

            “Hotch,” she said. “Where are we going?”

            He said nothing. Then, with no indication of a decision made, he said simply: “The call.”

            JJ nodded, taking hold of this. “Who’s calling you?”

            Nothing. Then Hotch’s face tightened slightly, the squeeze of his eyes emphasizing the slight wrinkles making their presence known along his skin, glacial striations worn into ancient bedrock.

            “Who’s on the phone, Hotch?”

            The memory enveloped him with a surge of warmth and salt, like blood.

            He said, “Sean.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Who owned the dog, Bill?"

_ 22 Years Ago _

            The bedroom of their little apartment was small, but it was warm and comfortable; best of all, it was theirs. It was Thursday. He would remember this in years to come: it was a few hours past midnight on what had been a good Wednesday night, the hot kind of night that ended with the two of them tangled together under the sheets, falling asleep chest-to-chest, hearts syncing into a single pulse.

            Beside their bed, the phone rang. Aaron, having the kind of job which sometimes required calls late at night (as opposed to Haley, who worked regular hours at a bank), woke up first and reached for the phone. The job was relatively new, a rare opportunity orchestrated by men who expressed uncomfortable condolences at his father’s death (almost a decade too late, but he wasn’t complaining), and he wasn’t about to screw it up by ignoring a phone call.

            “Aaron Hotchner speaking,” he said, a greeting which would last a few more years, eventually to be shortened into a single short declaration of his last name.

            There was no immediate response on the other line, and Aaron blinked tiredly, rubbing the sleepiness from his eyes. Beside the bed, a little clock blinked, so late it was almost morning. A late-night call was not completely unheard of; a pre-dawn phone call was a little more rare. “Hello?” he asked. Beside him, Haley rolled over, lifting the covers up over her ears.

            Then, a whispered voice: “Aaron?”

            Aaron blinked. In his half-sleep haze, it took him a second to recognize the voice. “Sean?” he replied, sitting up, swinging his legs off the bed. “Are you OK?”

            “Stay on the phone.”

            “What?” asked Aaron, blinking desperately, trying to shake the confusion out of his head. Immediately fraternal stringency, the tight, familiar charge of the eldest son, flared in his belly and, irritation clearing his mind, he asked “Oh God, Sean, where are you? Do you need to be picked up?”

            “No,” hissed Sean; his voice was still quiet, under his breath. “Just stay on the phone, OK?”

            Closing his eyes to alleviate the gentle stinging behind his eyelids – indication that he hadn’t slept enough – Aaron asked bluntly, “Why?”

            Sean’s breathing. Not loud, so he wasn’t running, and Aaron couldn’t hear anything in the background, so he wasn’t outside. Something sunk into Aaron’s gut as he entertained the next logical possibility: _He’s high_.

            Taking his older brother by complete surprise, Sean sounded as sober as it was possible to sound, given the situation, when whispered into the receiver again. He said, “You’re gonna be a witness. OK? Just don’t hang up.”

            Some of Aaron’s anger began to eke away. “Sean,” he said again. “Where are you?”

            A breath, then: “I’m at home.”

            “What am I witnessing?”

            No answer.

            Aaron held the phone tightly. He didn’t know what was going on, and that scared him; behind him, in bed, Haley seemed to sense his tension, and she sat up. Gently placing her hands on his back, she began, “Baby…?”

            Then Sean spoke, so Aaron did not reply to Haley. “Nobody would believe me,” he whispered, very quietly; he didn’t sound scared, but Aaron didn’t like the tone in his voice anyway, “if I didn’t have a witness.”

            “What?” asked Aaron, and then he said, “Oh my God,” and then he said, head clear and alert, “Is someone there?”

            Sean sounded almost dour as he replied quietly, “Just me and Bill, Aaron.”

            “Sean,” said Aaron. “Do you need me to hang up and call 911?”

            “Stay on the phone. Shh – OK – shhh-”

            There was a shuffling sound like the phone set aside, or tucked under a pillow or something, and then a fuzzy sort of silence.

            Aaron held the phone out before him and hung up. “Hey,” said Haley, as he punched three digits into the phone and held it back up to his ear. “What’s going on? Is Sean OK?”

            “No,” answered Aaron, leaning forward, worry eating up his stomach. “I don’t know what’s going on, Haley.”

            “911, what’s your emergency?”

            It took an hour flat to get back to the Hotchner residence in Manassas, Virginia; in the daytime it took longer, but just past three AM the roads were empty. Despite her protests, Aaron had insisted that Haley stay at home and keep trying to call Sean back. After the first three or four tries, it began to seem pointless. The phone was off the hook.

            When he got to the house, there were two cop cars parked outside. Bill stood outside on the porch, talking with two cops. All three of them were drinking hot coffee from mugs that belonged to Aaron’s mother. It took an accusation which quickly devolved into Aaron pulling rank, insisting that this would be taken straight to the DA’s office, and he would launch a full investigation into the MPD before he finally got two of the cops to take Bill to the station in the back of one of the cars, although they didn’t handcuff him.

            Then it becomes a blur: Aaron’s most vivid memory will always be that first pang of panic, sitting in bed with Haley, and then the dull expression in Sean’s eyes, leaning one elbow on the kitchen table as his older brother patiently tried to explain to their mother what was going on.

\----

            “Sean’s room,” said Hotch.

            JJ still sat against the desk. She had her whole life thought the curse was to be the younger sibling. Listening to Hotch force himself to bring this memory back, she was beginning to doubt herself. “What’s in Sean’s room?” she asked gently.

            “A TV,” he answered, his eyes still mostly-closed, eyelashes fluttering as he struggled to keep them shut. “That wasn’t there last time I was home.” Then at last he relented, and his eyes opened just the smallest bit, although they were far away. “And the phone,” he murmured. “I never realized. It was a new phone, Sean had never had one in his room before.”

            “OK,” said JJ. “Good. What about Bill?”

            The name snapped through Hotch, and for a split second he looked confused, glancing around the room. Again, JJ prompted, “Did you talk to Bill again?”

            Faintly, Hotch nodded.

\----

            Nobody wanted to be there; not like anyone wants to show up for something like this on a regular day, but, _please_ – Bill Montgomery? Everybody knew Nadya Hotchner’s son was a troublemaker, anyway. Everyone had hoped he’d clean up, like the older one, but Sean was just getting worse and worse.

            This was a scene that stuck in Aaron’s mind, took root and grew like a moss. This was a scene that Hotch would never allow to play out again, as long as he could.

\----

            JJ didn’t sound confident. “Hotch, maybe we should go back further.” He heard the point she was making, considered it. But some part of him rejected it, knew that there was something here in this shameful night. It was almost over. “Bill. Remember?”

            Slowly, he nodded. “Bill,” he repeated.

\----

            As Bill said it twenty years ago with that smarmy grin, sitting at a little desk in a police station with all the guys he knew by name, Hotch said it along with him, reclining in a darkened office, reliving the fresh sting of the words as if they were being said once more by the man one room over. Outside the office, outside the building, it was early morning once more, bringing a sort of resonance to the memory, a completeness, a curtain rising and falling.

            “…been meaning to get back to Bridgewater, anyway. Jimmy gets antsy when I’m gone for too long.”

\----

            Sensing the opportunity, JJ immediately seized the comment. “Good!” she said, leaning forward. “That’s perfect, Hotch. Jimmy – like James. Do you know who Jimmy was?”

            Just like that, Hotch seemed removed from the memory. That familiar frown returned to his face, softened by the organic stink of memories, fresh dirt dug up like a defiled grave. As JJ watched him hopefully, she could tell from the expression on her face that something was wrong. Her heart fell.

            Quietly, Hotch said: “We thought Jimmy was his dog.”

\----

            Hands gloved with blue latex, Reid and Morgan went through the four pieces of evidence which damned James Turner. A bulky, very mid-nineties digital wristwatch which belonged to Kyle Shepherd, a faded _KS_ written in silver Sharpie on the inside face; glasses matching those in Tommy Burnett’s photos; a pair of shoes in Peter Davenport’s size; and the offending backpack, which Mark Cochrane’s parents had identified. Along with the objects themselves were photographs of the stuff proudly displayed in James Turner’s home.

            “This doesn’t make sense,” murmured Reid, inspecting the pictures. Without glancing up at Morgan, who was looking over a partial fingerprint found on Tommy’s glasses, Reid continued, “James Turner is developmentally disabled, there’s no way he could be the dominant personality in a partnership with Bill Montgomery.”

            “Which is why,” Morgan continued, gesturing towards the objects before them, “ _this_ doesn’t make sense. Usually it would be the dominant who’d take trophies.”

            Abandoning the photographs, Reid returned to Mark Cochrane’s backpack, which had his initials written on the tags. “Even still,” he said dubiously, “these are a pretty poor choice of trophies to take, aren’t they? All easily identifiable, all practical things – doesn’t it defeat the purpose of a trophy if it’s something that you _use?_ Souvenirs, trophies, whatever you want to call them – usually they'd be something less practical, something you'd keep on a shelf, never something you'd really be able to use.”

            “Well,” said Morgan fairly, “Turner seemed pretty proud of these. Lined ‘em all right up on the shelf in his home.” He paused; when Reid did not reply, Morgan continued with this train of thought. “If we’re assuming the partnership,” he said, “then maybe Montgomery picked them out. That would explain why they’re so easy to identify – they’re his protection, his insurance that Turner’d take the fall.”

            “James Turner knows we have all this evidence,” murmured Reid, frowning slightly, mind hard at work. “Why would he lawyer up the second we bring Montgomery into this? He’s got to know that making a deal is the better option.”

            “Brain damage,” said Morgan pointedly. “Mentally disabled, you just said it, kid – maybe he _doesn’t_ know.”

            “The accident didn’t cause any damage to the frontal lobe,” murmured Reid, and Morgan figured maybe he should just let the kid play the theory out. “So he didn’t develop into a psychotic personality, but it did disrupt developmental stages of the brain, keeping him locked in to mental state much younger than his physiological age.”

            “Hey,” said Morgan, unable to keep quiet. “Turner’s older than Hotch’s brother, isn’t he?”

            Reid blinked, then nodded. “By four years.”

            Knowingly, Morgan nodded. “So maybe he was Montgomery's first victim,” he said. “Boom. Escalation.”

            For a moment Reid looked confused, and then his eyes widened and brightened with understanding. “You’re right,” he said, voice in a slight hush. “James Turner would be very easy to manipulate due to his disability. So he starts with a weaker target-”

            “Then, when he gets too old,” Morgan continued, “moves on to Sean. Hotch intervenes, Montgomery has to move on before he’s satisfied, that makes him angry. That’s when he gets violent and abducts Kyle Shepherd.”

            As the theory began to fall into place, excitement began to dawn on Reid's face: this was out of place given the circumstances, almost macabre. But never one to crush the kid’s high when he got it, Morgan humored him. “ _And_ ,” Reid continued, talking with his hands now, both index fingers held straight up in the air, “that also explains why James asked for a lawyer.”

            Standing before the pair of shoes, Morgan raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “You lost me there,” he said.

            “He felt threatened,” said Reid, holding his hands out above all the items before them.

            “By Montgomery?” asked Morgan.

            “No, no, no – no, James has an emotional attachment to Bill Montgomery, that explains why he kept all of these things,” Reid continued, speaking quickly now, peeling away the layers of murk to expose the most probable truth.

            “He was threatened Hotch, then? You think Montgomery told him about Hotch?”

            “Yes,” answered Reid, then he made a face and corrected, “Kind of. That’s it, that’s the ultimate emotional leverage Bill held over James over all these years, why he helped him commit the abductions and the murders, why he lets him use his van and his cabin, why he proudly displays the things Bill brings him-” he looked up to meet Morgan’s dark eyes, as if shocked by his own revelation. Reid finished: “The brain damage left James with a juvenile sense of separation anxiety and abandonment issues. He’s terrified of being replaced.”

            Still unsure, Morgan asked, “What does that have to do with Hotch?”

            “Not _Hotch_ ,” replied Reid. “Hotch _ner_. Montgomery tells James there’s a new boy named Hotchner – James gets so jealous that he agrees to help Bill, as long as there aren’t any more long-term boys after him.”

            It was beginning to come together. Understanding dawned in Morgan’s eyes, and he said, “So they kill the next kid.”

            “ _Exactly_ ,” said Reid, nodding furiously. “ _And_ as soon as Hotch introduced himself, James heard that name he’s spent years resenting. He feels threatened, he doesn’t want to talk to us anymore, he gets himself a lawyer.”

            In the short ensuing pause, Morgan looked around the evidence room. A muscle jumped in his jaw, and it occurred to the first time that some parts of this discussion might veer too closely to thoughts that Morgan didn’t want to touch, to which he didn’t want to be reminded of his own proximity. But the theory was too complete, and Reid had to see it out to its completion.

            “I mean, look at this stuff,” he said, motioning at the objects before him. “Watches, shoes, a backpack – James even wears glasses, Morgan. It’s not blackmail at all.”

            They stood there in the room, Mark Cochrane’s little backpack lying limply on the table, taunting them.

            “They’re not trophies,” said Morgan, glancing up to meet Reid’s eye. “They’re gifts.”

\----

            “Yes, my pretties, yes!” said Garcia gleefully, across the phone. “I can confirm! Baby James Turner lived with his single mother in Bridgewater, Virginia, until he was twenty-one, when his mother died and he moved to his current residence in Reston.”

            Looking up at the team, Prentiss asked, “Where do we go with that? We’re not gonna get anything from Turner to incriminate Montgomery.”

            “Maybe not,” answered Rossi. “But we can offer him a hell of a deal, and let his lawyer do the convincing.”

            “It doesn’t matter,” said Hotch.

            They all looked at him, his eyes focused on the phone in the center, from which Garcia spoke.

            “I…hope,” he began, glancing up at all of them, “that James Turner decides to talk, for his own benefit.” He paused, mouth pressed into a characteristic thin, angry line. “But we don’t need him.”

            “Hotch,” said Morgan. “His testimony is the only way we’re gonna put Montgomery away for-”

            “We only have a few hours left.” Lowly, Hotch murmured, “I can get a confession.”

            Nobody said anything. With uncertain, uncomfortable concern, JJ leaned in slightly, reaching out to touch his arm.

            It was Prentiss who broke the silence. She closed the folder before her, and she asked: “Then what are we waiting for?”

\----

            When Hotch entered the room, the man who sat at the steel table looked up. He spoke first.

            “Aaron,” he said. His voice was very smooth, and although he sounded pleased to finally see Hotch, he did not seem cheerful. “I’ve been asking for you, you know. How’s your mother?”

            Forgoing his usual alpha male blankness, Hotch simply dropped the manila folder on the table before the guy. “She died,” he answered, shortly. "Alzheimer's."

            The man made a face, an easy expression of sorrow. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he rumbled. “Couldn't have been easy for you.” There was a pause; Hotch was waiting for something, and they all could tell, but none of them knew what it was.

            With no suggestion of delight or glee at all, Bill Montgomery asked soberly, “And how is Sean?”

            Hotch’s reply came before the question was completely out of the man’s mouth. Voice hard, he said, “Don’t say his name.”

            Mournfully, the man lowered his gaze and shook his head. It was then, when his eyes weren’t locked on Hotch’s, that Hotch chose to sat down at the table across from him. Gently, the man asked, “Are you still holding that old accusation against me, Aaron? Don’t you know it’s been – twenty years?”

            “Twenty-two,” answered Hotch. He opened the case file, and slid a photograph towards the other man. “Twenty-one since Kyle Shepherd disappeared, Bill.”

            When the man looked down at the photograph, it was with genuine pain. “Kyle Shepherd,” he repeated, on a breath, like a groan. “I remember that kid. Didn’t he live in your neighborhood?”

            “Two streets down.”

            Nodding, the man continued, “Yeah. Kyle. He used to play with Sean, didn’t it?”

            “Two strikes, Bill. Don’t test your luck.”

            “Hey,” said the man, holding up his hands. “You’re the one asking me questions.”

            Wordlessly, Hotch stared at him. And then he pulled out a small notepad, and clicked a pen, and made a few marks on the page. Standing behind the one-way mirror, the rest of the team couldn’t make out what he was writing.

            “When Kyle was fifteen,” Hotch began, voice low as always, “you abducted him from school late one night, took him back to James Turner’s cabin in the wilderness, repeatedly raped him, then you killed him, Bill.”

            The smile tightened, but the man’s expression did not change. “No I didn’t, Aaron.”

            Hotch slowly slid a number of photographs out of the folder, placing them before the other man. “Kyle Shepherd,” Hotch said, voice low, dangerous. “Tommy Burnett. Peter Davenport. Mark Cochrane.”

            Bill stared at the photographs and then, pale, he had to look away.

            “Mark Cochrane was eleven years old,” Hotch continued. “A little young, even for you.”

            “I’ve never heard that name,” Bill said, deliberately not looking at the photos. “I’ve never seen this…poor boy.”

            Ignoring all of this, Hotch spoke, quiet, calm, dangerous. “When we cut you off from Sean, you got angry. You abducted Kyle Shepherd after you couldn’t get to my brother anymore. Then you panicked, and you killed him and disposed of the body as soon as you could. But you couldn’t stop thinking about him, could you? You couldn’t help but remember how…satisfied he made you. So almost ten years later, you think, it’s been long enough. Nobody remembers.” He paused, disgust on his face, watching the man before him. “Tommy lasts longer. You enjoy it. After you kill him, you can’t wait another ten years for another victim. You get greedy. You get hungry. You take Peter, he puts up a fight, sucks all the fun out of it.” He stopped one last time, staring down the man before him. “So a little while later, you take Mark. Eleven-year-old Mark Cochrane, you pick him up in that red sedan you still have, after all these years, and you take him to that cabin and keep him there for two months. Until you get bored of him, too. And you kill him. And that’s when we find you.”

            “This is absurd,” began Bill, shaking his head. “Aaron, you think you know me, don’t you? Then how could you possibly think I was involved in the death of _four_ boys?” The anger in his voice rose, and he added, “I was a _camp counselor_ , for Chrissake’s!”

            “Shenandoah Sunshine Summer Camp,” answered Hotch, glancing down at the file before him. “Right?”

            Bill stopped suddenly. He retreated, sinking into his seat. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s been a while. Might’a been.”

            This did not satisfy Hotch.

            “Do you remember telling me about Jimmy, Bill?” asked Hotch, voice softer and infinitely more dangerous.

            Bill blinked. “Jimmy?”

            “Christmas, 1991,” said Hotch, watching the man. “You bought a dog collar. You said it was for Jimmy.”

            “Jimmy,” said Bill, nodding now, as if he’d just remembered something. “Yeah, right, that dog. Good dog, Aaron, shame your mother had that allergy, I never could bring him over.”

            “Who owned the dog?” asked Hotch.

            Now Bill stared at him.

            Hotch made a small movement, almost like a shrug. “Tell me who the dog belonged to,” he said. “And you’re done, Bill. This all goes away.”

            “A friend,” Bill blurted out. “My neighbor, over in Bridgewater.”

            Before the man had even finished his answer, Hotch was shaking his head. “No,” he said quietly, very controlled. “You never owned any property in Bridgewater. When you moved into my mother’s house, you didn’t own property anywhere.” Hotch paused, and then cocked his head just the tiniest bit. “Sean knew it, didn’t he? Sean knew you were there for our mother’s money, Sean knew exactly why you were there, Bill.”

            Suddenly, the old man leaned forward aggressively, lowering his voice. “Aaron,” he said, face red, although with rage or humiliation they could not yet tell. “You can’t hold on to these things forever. At some point, you’re going to have to come to terms with the fact that Sean _lied_ to you-”

            Hotch marked something else on the notepad before him.

            Bill scowled at the notepad and demanded, “What are you writing, Aaron?”

            Without meeting the other man’s gaze, Hotch held up the notepad. There were three tally marks there.

            Gently, Hotch said, “Every time you say my brother’s name, I’m going to turn off these cameras for thirty seconds and beat you senseless.”

            A beat of tense stillness. Behind the one-way mirror, JJ began, “Maybe we shouldn’t have-” but Rossi just said simply, “Let him do his thing.”

            In the stark interrogation room, Bill watched at him. And then a coy, slimy smile broke out on his lips. “You make me nostalgic, kid.”

            “Usually,” continued Hotch, “you’re what we would call a preferential offender. Except this is the thing that confuses me.” He paused for just a split second, meeting the older man’s gaze. Then he said, “You sleep with their mothers too.” Before Bill could protest this, Hotch corrected himself, “Not always, sure. Only when the boys are easy targets. Then you move in, go the whole hog, buy them gifts with mom’s money, fill a role in their life. You pick vulnerable, lonely boys searching for a father figure, and you groom them.”

            Before Hotch, Bill closed his eyes. “This is outrageous,” he said.

            “Who owned the dog, Bill?”

            The man did not answer this, only glowered at Hotch.

            “The fact is,” said Hotch; his voice had wavered so very little over the past few minutes, even as his words were filled with venom and vitriol, “we know. We know you’ve been supplying James Turner – _Jimmy_ – with cash, so he’ll keep up your cabin. We know you give him presents from the boys you kill, little tokens to prove that you still care about him. Again, this is where you confuse me. Teenage boys, middle-aged mothers – grown men, Bill? I don’t even think they have a name for a sexuality that specific-”

            “He’s not a man.”

            Hotch stopped. He raised his chin slightly, as if looking down at Bill.

            “Jimmy’s a boy,” said Bill, that sneering grimace still etched onto his face. “Can lead a dog to water but you can’t baptize an unwilling soul, and all that. Jimmy needed _guidance_ , same as Sean, and – you weren’t there, were you?”

            Hotch asked, “Did Kyle Shepherd need guidance?”

            Loudly, Bill said, “Kyle Shepherd was an accident.”

            The tension behind the glass heightened. “Was that a confession?” asked Prentiss, voice hushed, but her question went ignored.

            Bill broke. He tore his gaze away from Hotch and slammed a fist down onto the steel table. “ _Damn_ it,” he swore. “You know your brother made that stuff up, about seeing my car around school? I didn’t go within thirty miles of that place, not once, and then the little jerk _still_ has the nerve to call you, ever-doting _absentee_ brother all the way back from beginner’s FBI camp. Can you blame me, Aaron? Can you blame me for looking for something good and innocent in this world? Every time I try to do _anything_ , Jimmy screwed it the hell up.”

            “What did Jimmy do?” asked Hotch, his voice characteristically level.

            “Screwed the pooch, that’s what he did,” muttered Bill. “I tell him _Hotchner_ , Hotchner, the _Hotchner_ kid, and what does he bring me? Kyle- _fucking_ -Shepherd?”

            Bill snarled at Hotch from across the steel table, but Hotch did not flinch, didn’t even move.

            “Who’d the dog belong to, Aaron?” echoed Bill, words thrown back at Hotch like a taunt. “The dog belonged to _me_.”

            There was nothing for a moment.

            And then Hotch silently collected the photos, closed the folder, and got to his feet.

            “What?” demanded Bill. “You’re not gonna hit me this time?”

            “No,” answered Hotch simply, going to the door. “I think I’ll leave that up to the guys in prison, Mr. Montgomery.”

\----

            They were back at Quantico that evening.

            Hotch was in his office, but he’d set aside paperwork for the next day. This was unlike him, but he’d called Jack a few hours ago, and the kid was dying to show him an art project before bedtime. Today, in this moment, Hotch would allow himself that victory.

            Just as he was collecting everything into his briefcase, there was a small knock at his office door. “Come in,” he called.

            The door opened. Morgan stood in the doorway.

            “Hey,” he said. “Going home?”

            Hotch nodded, tucking papers into a file. “Trying to catch Jack before bedtime.”

            “Ah. Say hi for me.”

            “Of course.”

            There was a silence between them. Hotch could tell that Morgan had something else to say, so he slowed his shuffling of papers, allowed the other man a moment to build up to it.

            Finally, he said, “You did real good today, Hotch.”

            “Well,” replied the older man. “Took me long enough.”

            Then Morgan moved forward, to Hotch’s desk, and held something out. “Look, I know I don’t really know Sean, but would you mind passing this along for me?”

            Glancing up at Morgan’s face, then down at the card, Hotch took it from the other man. Contact information for a group was stamped onto the card, with the subtitle _Overcoming Sexual Victimization of Boys and Men_.

            Hotch held the card for a moment, then looked up at Morgan. “Derek,” he began, “I appreciate that you’d…think of him.” He hesitated, then added, “But I haven’t talked to him about this in twenty years. I don’t know if he wants to open that up again.”

            “That’s fine,” said Morgan, holding up his hands to reinforce this. “Just…let him know it’s not about us. We counsel kids, mostly, and we could use another mentor.”

            Holding the card tightly, Hotch looked up at Morgan, hoping that his deep, sincere appreciation would bleed through his normally stony expression. “I’ll let him know.”

            When Morgan smiled at him, Hotch couldn’t find the strength to return in kind but appreciated the gesture nonetheless. “See you tomorrow, Hotch.”

            The other man left, and Hotch was left alone in his office. Once more, he looked down at the very professional-looking card. He hadn’t been aware that Morgan was involved in anything like this. Although, on second thought, he should’ve known. At his core, Morgan was driven by a belief in change, in goodness, in love, and every single thing he did was motivated by his need to help others. Hotch admired that, but he also knew how badly it stung when it went wrong.

            Hotch’s phone went off with a high-pitched ring and a picture caller ID filled the screen, and he found that a smile wasn’t so hard after all, and he answered.

            “Daddy,” said Jack seriously, “I have to go to bed in _twenty minutes_.”

            “OK, buddy,” answered Hotch, taking his briefcase and heading out of his office. “I’ll be there, I promise. Don’t worry, I’m on my way.”

\----

_ New York, One Week Later _

            “Oh man,” Sean laughed, although it could’ve sounded almost forced. “Look who it is.” Shaking his head at his brother, obviously amused, he asked, “How’d you find me, man?”

            Aaron shrugged, taking a seat at the bar. “You’re a bartender in New York,” he answered. “I Googled you.”

            With a grin, Sean countered, “Aw, come on. I thought I was off the grid pretty good. Didn’t want any more Feds chasing my ass.”

            He probably didn’t mean to add the silent _You, either_ , but Aaron heard it anyway. “OK,” admitted Aaron, returning the grin. “So my FBI technical analyst Googled you.”

            “Ah,” answered Sean, nodding his head. “The hacker girl, right?”

            “Garcia. Yeah, that's her.”

            There was an awkward sort of pause, and then Sean asked, “Can I get you something?”

            Aaron seized this opportunity graciously. “Scotch on the rocks?”

            “Yeah, I thought so.” Sean grabbed a tumbler and found a bottle, saying, “On the house, for my overbearing, overprotective big bro.”

            “Overprotective?” echoed Aaron suspiciously. “Last time I saw you, I got you arrested.”

            “Ah,” replied Sean, waving his hand, brushing it all away. “That was my fault, anyway. And hey, I didn’t even go to jail.”

            “I heard.”

            Sean passed the drink to his brother, and looked him in the eye. “You did?” Aaron nodded, and, once more, Sean’s face split into a grin. “See? Overbearing. You were born to be a dad, Aaron, not a brother.”

            There was another pause, then Aaron said, “Speaking of…” Sean didn’t exactly look up; or he tried to hide it, at least, but his older brother saw straight through it. “Jack is here with me,” Aaron continued. “We’re staying at Beth’s place.”

            “Beth?” repeated Sean disbelievingly. “You’re still with that girl?” Aaron nodded. “Long-distance?”

            “A couple hours by train,” replied Aaron, shaking his head. “Short-distance, really.”

            Although Aaron hadn’t exactly asked a question, he said no more, allowing for Sean to answer. The younger man wiped a rag behind the bar, then set the rag down and looked up at his brother’s face. “I work closing tonight,” he said. “But maybe I can see you guys tomorrow?”

            “Tomorrow,” said Aaron, nodding. “That’d be perfect. You still have my number?”

            “The 278 one?”

            “That’s me.”

            “Great.” Sean’s smile was genuine, such a stark contrast to the darkness that had been lingering around Hotch for the previous week, the Montgomery case resting at the bottom of his conscious.

            Aaron sat and drank for a while. Sean made a few other drinks, and then they talked for a while. As it was winding down, late enough that Aaron wanted to head back to be with Jack and Beth, he stopped for a second, looking down into the glass in front of him.

            “Hey, Sean,” he said.

            The younger brother finished pouring some shots, and went back over to Aaron. “Yeah?”

            There was no tension between them. This is what Aaron always forgot about his brother: the simplicity, how easy it was to forget about guilt when you’re catching up after a while apart. “Back at home, did you ever know a guy named James Turner?”

            Sean thought about this for a second, then shook his head. “Nah, I’m blanking,” he said. “Was he your age?”

            “Maybe,” answered Aaron, looking down into his glass. “I don’t know. Nevermind.”

            Not long after that, he said goodnight to his brother. Sean promised to call him tomorrow, and Aaron told him to get some sleep, and Sean then accused him of being overbearing and overprotective once more, and then Aaron walked out of the place with the little paper card still in his pocket, untouched.

\----

            JJ’s voice. “ _Think back to the last time you saw William Montgomery_.”

\----

            8824 Claremont Road, Greensboro, North Carolina. Scandal had driven Bill Montgomery out of town; Nadya Hotchner, although still vaguely unclear on the details of the matter, had felt it her motherly duty to kick him out of the house, banish him from ever seeing her sons again. To combat the deathly recoil of loneliness, she was beginning to sink back into functioning alcoholism. This was not exactly new. It was, in fact, precisely where she’d been after her husband died.

            Bill had inherited the nice suburban house a few years before he got kicked out. 8824 Claremont Road, Greensboro, North Carolina. He was damn proud of the property. He’d told Aaron about it several times.

            Aaron Hotchner knocked on the door to the little white house at 8824 Claremont Road, and when it opened, he punched Bill Montgomery in the mouth, and then he did it again, and again, and by the time he scurried back out, down the porch steps, back to his car waiting at the curb, his knuckles were covered in blood, and Bill was left groaning gently in pain just beyond the front door.

            For twenty years, Hotch had only had one single memory of William Montgomery that didn’t fill him with shame.

\----

            Now he had two.

_ As lightning to the children eased _ _   
_ With explanation kind _   
_ The truth must dazzle gradually _   
__ Or every man be blind. _   
Emily Dickinson


End file.
